Tuesday, 10 May 2016

His Royal Highness, The Tamil Tiger - FICTION

By

Kathir Balasundaram

Chapter 7

Freedom Fighter

The Minster of Political Affairs stood in his luxurious bedroom
adjusting his camouflage uniform. He had a special meeting in about two hours
that he needed to prepare for. He was deep in thought, his lips moving but
issuing no sound. His disgrace at the Vembady Girl’s College weighed heavily on
his mind, and he frequently glanced at the ceiling, lost in thought.

His wife, Komathy, watched her distinguished husband with concern.
She fidgeted herself, adjusting her blue salwar kameez*—a popular Indian
dress—as she glanced worriedly at her husband. She didn’t understand his
distress, because she didn’t take the disturbance at the Vembady Girls’ College
seriously. She held faith that her husband’s good relationship with His Royal
Highness would remain close no matter what.
She assumed that His Royal Highness depended greatly on her husband.

“Your smile is carrying the weight of worry,” she said softly. “Your
forehead is perspiring too, and you keep muttering. I don’t understand why you
are so worried.”

The Minister frowned at his wife and beckoned her to follow him into
the sitting room—a room recently filled with shining brand new Italian
furniture. The Minister sat down slowly on the sofa and looked rather
pathetically at his wife. He recalled the days when he had loved her, and now,
looking at her, he recalled them fondly. He sighed. He did not dare disclose to
her the real nature of his return to their home.

“His Royal Highness has called me to an urgent meeting,” he told
her.

“You’re worried about what happened yesterday, aren’t you?” She
shook her head. “Don’t worry. You are his right hand man—the unofficial deputy
of the Tamil Tigers. We all know that the situation has changed since the
signing of the CFA.”

“He’s not like that,” he found himself disagreeing. “If someone
fails, that’s it. That’s the end of him. He only cares for results, not excuses
for failure. Remember when he was under house arrest in Delhi*, India’s
capitol, in 1987? He vowed revenge upon Indian
Prime Minister RajivGandhi
for that, and he never gave up that vow. He carried vengeance in his heart for
four years until he succeeded in assassinating him through Thanu, that girl he
turned into a suicide bomber.” He looked hard at his wife. “Revenge is in his
blood. We needed India.
I don’t believe that we can establish a TamilKingdom
without the backing of India.
But he won’t ever listen to advice. You know him. He’s a dangerous, obstinate
man. He practically invented guerrilla tactics that have so shaken the world.”
He took a deep breath. “If Al-Qaida learned from him, how am I to stand before
him? I’m scared.”

His wife licked her lips, her eyes shifting back and forth in
denial. “Darling, you were his bodyguard for twelve years. It’s different for
you. He likes you. You brought presents to his children
from Europe! He respects you…I’m sure
of it! He wouldn’t do anything extreme.”

“He doesn’t care about such things,” the Minister said waving away
her words with one hand. “Remember Mahattaya? He was once the deputy of the
Tamil Tigers and head of our political party. In 1987, he even signed a 14
point agreement with Puri, the First Secretary of the High commission of India.” He
lifted an eyebrow. “He was an important person too. He was liked by His Royal
Highness, but that didn’t stop His Royal Highness from issuing an arrest
warrant, charging Mahattaya with treason and with the attempted assassination
of His Royal Highness. Uncle Pottu,
on orders of His Royal Highntess, took Mahattaya and 257 of his supporters to a
coconut estate east of Chavakachcheri where they were executed right in front
of many important citizens called out just to watch the execution.”

Komathy swallowed hard. “Was he guilty?”

“Who knows? Treason is the standard charge handed out these days.
There was some evidence—a lot if you trust the word of those who brought it.
But who knows?”

His wife now looked a bit nervous. “Where
is your meeting?”

“I don’t know. When I reach Murukandy, the Chief
of Intelligence Uncle Pottu’s men will escort me to the location.”

Those words hit his wife’s heart like stones slung from a sling. She
mentally made the connection between Uncle Pottu—‘Uncle’ being a term of respect, not
physical relation. Her heart sank. For the first time, she began to truly
worry. “Will you take your bodyguards?”

The Minister stood and shook his head. “I go alone.” Having said
that, he started out the door and marched to his new Pajero parked in front of
his well-to-do house. He paused with his hand on the door handle and looked
around as if it may be the last time he ever did so. His favorite dog barked at
him from the kennel near the porch, its black, hairy tail wagging at his master,
his large head and eyes straining at the gate. The Minister looked to his small
wife standing with teary eyes by the ornate front door and shook his head
sadly. The absence of his usual smile proclaimed louder than words his perilous
situation at the hands of His Royal Highness.

Komathy watched as her husband’s car left the compound, the three
armed sentries closing the iron gate behind him. She, too, was a member of the
Tamil Tiger Insurgency even before her marriage to the Minister. “Please, God, be
with him! I never thought this day would come so soon. I have nowhere to go and
my own family will have nothing to do with me!”

She turned back, determined to spend a long time in the Prayer Room,
praying for her husband.

* * * * *

That same morning found His Royal Highness shaving in his luxurious
washroom within the well fortified compound hidden deep in the jungle east of
Kilinochchi about two miles from the Bay of Bengal. A small number of abandoned
huts, roofed with coconut leaves, lay scattered around the bunker—only
occasionally occupied by Tamil Tiger soldiers stationed near the compound.

The vegetation, during the monsoon season, had
exploded into colorful shades of green, accented by a wide variety of beautiful
flowers of all colors. A strong wind from the northeast
swayed the palmyra palmsslightlyand caused bushes and other trees to sway more
violently. The wind carried to the ears of those near the bunker the faint
sounds of massive waves crashing against the shore.

Atop the bunker, on ground level, stood a small
concrete house roofed with red tiles. The house was a front—a quaint,
picturesque deception that helped to hide the reinforced steel and cement
bunker buried ten feet below it. The bunker had been specially constructed to
withstand direct airstrikes from K-fir and Mig-27 bombers. It had all of the
modern conveniences including electricity, TV, refrigerator, and air-condition.

Tall trees with overlapping branches and leaves formed a camouflaged
canopy over the small house to add more protection from aerial spying. A rather
innocent looking fence surrounded the house and was covered in cadjans—coconut
leaves—to make it look like it belonged to some farmer. The white sandy ground
around the house looked neat and tidy. A short distance away and cleverly
hidden among the large fan like palmyra leaves, satellite dishes fed the bunker
with the latest intelligence reports, news, and TV programs from around the
world.

Security was exceptionally strong around the house and was composed
of two rings. The first ring was about five hundred yards out from the house
and the second one about one thousand two yards out. All of the security guards
were dressed in black to enable them to blend into the dark shadows of the
jungle. They were armed with sophisticated assault weapons strong enough to
fend off tanks, if necessary.

Many of the guards were on alert to escort His Royal Highness to an
urgent meeting more than thirty kilometers from
the bunker.

The previous day, nine hundred special-ops troops flooded the jungle
area around Murukandy, a region to the south of Kilinochchi, checking houses,
disrupting classes at a small primary school, and keeping careful watch over
the part of the A9 Highway that ran nearby to the east. Most of the soldiers
were dressed in civilian clothing, but some were dressed in the recognizable
black clothing of elite Tamil Tiger soldiers. To secure the area, two men were
posted at each house to prevent word from spreading of His Royal Highness’
pending arrival. The rest of the troops scattered over the mosquito infested
paddy fields and water reservoirs, keeping company with scorpions, snakes, deer, elephants, and pigs.

With a clean shave and his thick mustache dyed black, His Royal
Highness strode into the main white-marbled room of the bunker. His gaze ran over the pictures of his family that hung on
the white walls, and he absently adjusted his camouflaged uniform devoid of any
identifying marks or medals. His son, fifteen year
old, Chanthran, entered the room from another door. His Royal Highness
looked fondly at his boy and said, “My dear son, one day you’ll wear the
Tigers’ uniform and fight for the TamilKingdom.”

His son shrugged. “Don’t you think it will end in your lifetime,
Dad?”

“You’re too intelligent to believe that, son.”

“Father, I hate your war.” He paused, struggling to form his words.
“You’ll fight until you’re dead, Father. I don’t think you even like peace.”

“My dear son, you are too small to understand how important our
mission is. If we die, we die for a worthy cause. We are fighting for the
freedom of all Tamils who have been treated like slaves by the Sinhalese. We’ve
been slaughtered by the thousands, driven from our lands, and persecuted
relentlessly. We have no rights. It’s my job to teach them a lesson, to show
them that the Tamil people will no longer bow before them. History will
remember me as a liberator and a freedom fighter—a dark blot on Mahavasma history written by a bigoted Sinhala Buddhist monk
and a time of shame for the Sinhalese race.

Having no words to fight against such rhetoric, his son just
shrugged again. “Whatever, I just hate living in this bunker.”

“Why? You have everything
here. Uncle, the Smiling Minister, brought you
toys from Europe.”

“I want to be like all the other boys.”

“You will. Once we have established a TamilKingdom,
we can abandon these bunkers.”

“Dad, you just said that I’ll have
to fight! You said it won’t end in your lifetime.”

“Just be patient, son.”

“You don’t know when this will end, do you? Why don’t you make a
permanent peace agreement?”

“Until we have a separate kingdom for the Tamils, there can never be
a permanent peace.”

The lad licked his lips. “Are you afraid to leave the bunker, Dad?”

His Royal Highness scowled at his son, resenting the allusion to
fear. “Mathy!” he shouted. His wife rushed into the room. “Take him out,” he
ordered.

The lad, startled and scared, ran to his mother and slipped behind
her hoping she could shield him from his father’s wrath.

“He’s just a lad,” Mathy said soothingly. “He’s just tired of living
like this. Please, he is not arguing with you. Mathy’s voice reflected her
education. She was an agricultural undergraduate from a high class family of
Punkududeevu, a tiny island situated to the southwest of the City of Jaffna. She could have
gone much further in her education, but having fallen in love with the
notorious guerilla leader of the Tamil Tigers cut her education short.

“He’s impertinent,” her husband snapped. “You would do well to teach
him to follow his older brother and sister.”

“You want him to join the soldiers,” she accused. “I’ve already lost
my younger brother to battle. Must we lose our own children?”

His face darkened as he strode towards his wife. “Shut up, and get
out of my way.”

She blanched at his dark tone and scooted aside. She rarely heard
such language from her husband, and indeed, His Royal Highness didn’t like to
use such strong words with his wife. But the details of the episode at the
Vembady Girls’ College had unbalanced him. His simmering anger had not yet
found a focus, and for the first time in four years, he had called all of his
ministers and bureaucrats together for a meeting.

He rarely left his bunker these days. During the Indian Peace
Keeping Forces occupation in 1987, the Tamil people saw him only once when he
addressed roughly one hundred thousand people to explain his reasons for
accepting the agreement between India
and Sri Lanka.
He came out of hiding briefly in 2002 when he met a crowd of about two hundred
individuals representing local and foreign media agencies. This incident with
the Vembady Girls’ College, however, needed to
be addressed personally.

His Royal Highness moved into a small sitting room near the exit and
sat down on a sofa, picked up a phone—a direct line to his Intelligence Chief,
and said, “Pottu?”

“Yes Your Highness?” came the voice on the line.

“Security?”

“In place. Everyone is alert and the route and destination are
secure.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in Murukandy. I’m watching the traffic on the A9 Highway near the
MurukandyPillayarTemple.
Many people are stopping to pray, light camphor, and
break coconuts in front of the Temple.
They then go nearby to a tea shop to have tea.”

“Be careful.”

“I’ve got thirty men in plain clothing keeping an eye on the
situation here.”

“If you see anyone loitering, take him immediately for
interrogation.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Sometime later, His Royal Highness’ convoy moved along remote gravel
roads through the jungle towards his meeting some thirty miles away. A troop of
husky, reddish brown monkeys chattered excitedly from the sides of the road,
jumping from branch to branch among the trees as the cars passed them. Along
the entire route, Tamil Tiger soldiers lay hidden in protective silence as
their leader passed.

Six identical forest green jeeps moved along in the convoy, preceded
by a security detail of twenty motorcycles staggered about a hundred meters
apart from each other to keep an eye on the road ahead.

The convoy passed by the Iranamadu reservoir brimming with the
monsoon rains. It was the largest reservoir in northern Sri Lanka,
irrigating around 9,500 acres of paddy fields. Rose color lotuses along the
bank attracted His RoyalHighness’ attention
and distracted him from his anxiety. A group of birds dived into the water
chasing fish. He recalled hunting such small birds with his slingshot as a boy,
their tender flesh made a delicious spicy curry. He almost stopped the jeep to
watch the birds, pick some lotuses, and enjoy their fresh fragrance, but he
feared to show any watching eyes which jeep he rode in.

He traveled in the first vehicle. In the third one, a man looking
very much like him, a double, served as a decoy.

They crossed the A9
Highway and also the abandoned Colombo-Jaffna
train tracks—a remnant of the civil war. The railway station buildings were all
damaged by Sri Lankan air force bombings. The iron rails were missing, having
been appropriatedfor use in constructing
protective bunkers. Creepers had taken over both the rail bed and the
buildings, intertwining with tall bushes that had overgrown the area.

At length, the convoy came to a stop a short distance from the
primary school inMurukandy.

* * * * *

The secret meeting would take place at the primary school. The
school sat in the midst of some small houses, their roofs thatched with paddy
straw. The school, in contrast, was a newer construction having been roofed in
red tiles. Two of the classrooms had been converted into an audience room
filled with beautiful and expensive furniture brought in from the Kilinochchi
Cultural Hall. His Royal Highness’ ornate chair dominated the room not only in
location, but also in expense. The rest of the chairs were arranged in a half
circle in front of His Royal Highness’ chair.

Ministers and bureaucrats sat in these chairs, talking quietly
amongst themselves. An air of worry and trepidation pervaded the general
feeling of those present. Previous meetings of this sort usually involved the
demotion and severe punishment of someone. Most hoped it wasn’t them, but more
than a few eyes fell on the Minister of Political Affairs whose famous smile
alone was not in attendance. They knew about what happened at the Vembady
Girl’s College. They knew why the normally proud man had chosen to sit in the
back row. They knew why the Chief Intelligence Officer, Uncle
Pottu, sat alone, his stern gaze
resting completely on the Minister of Political Affairs.

The Treasury Secretary, sporting a deep scar
from a bullet on his forehead, whispered to the Minister of Fisheries,
“In the entire history of our movement, there has never been a greater shame.
Remember former Minister of Education, JeganMohan?
He too was questioned and challenged by a civilian, a
young man from a village in Jaffna.”

“I remember,” the other replied softly. “His Royal Highness stripped
him of his rank and tossed him into prison for not shooting the upstart young
man.”

The Treasury Secretary nodded. “I saw him recently. He’s nothing
more than a common recruit all the way at the bottom.” He threw a look at the
Minister of Political Affairs. “His Royal Highness will have his head.”

“It all depends on his mood,” the other agreed. “His Royal Highness
just may shoot him dead right here in front of us.”

His Royal Highness’bodyguards poured into the room seemingly from
everywhere at once. An instant hush fell over the waiting ministers and
bureaucrats. Three guards took up positions behind His Royal Highness’ chair.
One of the guards, a tall girl with two braids wrapped around the nape of her
neck, scrutinized the room carefully. Her AK-47 rested familiarly over one
shoulder, and she fingered her sidearm hanging from her right hip as she looked
from person to person. Her lack of any jewelry and the manner in which she had
done her hair gave her a distinctly odd look.

Without warning, His Royal Highness walked into the audience room
like an army commander preparing to dress down his troops. Everyone stood and
saluted, holding both palms together in front of their chests like Hindus
praying. Most of the men in the room were large and well fed like wild
buffaloes of the Vanni forests. Only the Minister of Political Affairs seemed
physically fit enough to actually charge into combat with the younger soldiers.
Every one of the men, however, sported a mustache much like that of their
leader.

The attending officials sat down only after His Royal Highness took
his seat. Their fearsome leader looked straight into the eyes of the Smiling
Minister. Everyone held their breath expecting disaster to strike their fellow
officer.

His Royal Highness cleared his throat. “Dear Ministers
and bureaucrats, fellow Tamil Tigers, in all of our illustrious history, the
Tamil Tigers have never before faced such disgrace as we now do by the students
at Vembady Girls’ College. Always before, we crushed even the most minute word
or act that disparaged either our worthy cause or my deeds. I personally
eliminated many of them!

“I’m certain that this dissidence is the subtle work of other insurgency
groups that have now joined with the government and act on its behalf as a paramilitary unit.” He took in the entire room with
wide eyes. “The danger is more pronounced than we believe. If this rebellion
isn’t smashed soon, we will be driven from our beloved homeland to live in
exile. We can’t allow this to continue. Our Intelligence Chief, Uncle Pottu, will explain further.”

Pottu climbed to his feet and turned to face the crowd.

“Your Majesty and my friends, we have to act fast. According to
intelligence reports, a philosophical change has crept into the consciousness
of the people of Jaffna
following the signing of the CFA. Little by little, the people are turning
against us. The information coming our way from our intelligence assets is
unbelievably dreadful…and it’s spreading.

“People have begun to look upon us almost as
fiends, and lately our unyielding tax extracting system has made them hate us.”
Uncle Pottu
sighed deeply before continuing, his eyes fixed on his audience. “We believe
that the mastermind behind yesterday’s verbal attack at Vembady Girls’ College
was a thirty-six year old unmarried lady named Kavitha from K.K.S., a port city
on the north coast of Jaffna
peninsula. The woman is the daughter of Karunanithy, a police officer, whom we
killed at Maviddapuram in 1977. You know who killed him.” Hearing the tact
hint, the audience stood up and applauded looking straight at His Royal
Highness smiling and nodding. His Royal Highness had been 23 at the time and
had just established his Tamil Tiger insurgency the previous year.

“Karunanithy was the first
policeman—an informant who betrayed our leader’s whereabouts—killed by the
Tamil Tigers. His daughter, Kavitha, is a history graduate from the celebrated University of Peradeniya; she passed her final
examination at the top of her class. She was a contemporary and friend of Priya
Shan, Vice Principal of Vembady Girls’ College, who studied chemistry in the
faculty of science. Now Kavitha is a teacher at Vembady Girls’ College and
known as History Teacher among students as well as staff. Also, she is the
younger sister of a soldier, Duruvan of Tamil Eelam Liberation Organization,
whom we shot and burnt at KKS-Moolai
intersection in 1986. He was one of the 400 TELO soldiers we killed to purge
the movement. At that time, Kavitha was a eleven year old girl attending
Ramanathan Girls’ College. She with her mother witnessed the burning corpse of
her brother, Duruvan, and since then, she has been carrying vengeance—further
fuelled by her father, Karunanithy’s, killing—for His Royal Highness.

“Our veteran spies have been
gathering disturbing news. Some say that the history teacher is backed up by
the army; some say she is being backed up by the insurgent group—now a
paramilitary unit—PLOTE; another report says that she is being supported by
RAW, the external intelligent service of India. It appears that she has been
shrewd enough to confuse our spies up until now.”

He stared coldly around him.
“Above all, the most worrying news is that she had a female informant in the
Tamil Tiger movement itself.” The audience jerked in shock, their mouths
hanging open. His Royal Highness just watched his high-ranking officials without
reacting. He had already been briefed on the substance of Pottu’s speech. “That
informant has already been arrested and interrogation is ongoing to find out
whether she has any more informants among us.

“The history teacher received
information on Wednesday just before dawn that the Tamil Tigers were visiting
Vembady Girls’ College that day. And it seems the bachelorette had the support
of the Sri Lanka
army too. It is a wonder how she was able to form a rebel group at Vembady
Girls’ College and succeed in turning a whole school against His Royal Highness
right under the noses of our spy network.”

Uncle Pottu moved close to His Royal Highness to whisper
something and then continued his report. “Her main
accomplice and protégée is a Year 12 science student with an impressive
academic and sports record. She is expected to enter the medical faculty this year with the highest grades in the
island. She is Head Prefect Mehala, the eldest daughter of Ganesh, a rich
merchant His Royal Highness was forced to kill when he refused to deliver up
his jewels to support the beginning of our cause. We believe that Mehala
orchestrated the rebellion with the help of Vice
Principal Priya and eventually ordered the students from the
auditorium.”

This was news to the Smiling Minister who listened in shock.

“Have you arrested these people?” Nadesh, Chief of Police, demanded.
Because Nadesh was His Royal Highness’ maternal
uncle, no one corrected him when he spoke out of turn.

“We sent a team to eliminate both of them, but they have escaped so
far.”

Nadesh’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How is it
possible to escape from Jaffna?”

“It looks
like the history teacher got help from EPDP paramilitary, and they took both
the history teacher and Head Prefect Mehala to Mandaitivu from where they
sailed to Rameswaram across the Palk Strait—you know that Rameswaram is a small
town on the southern tip of India. Though we got news a bit late, our navy
chased them. They would have caught them, had not the Sri Lankan navy
interfered. Still, we managed to pick up the chase a bit later with another
boat as they were struggling through dangerous waters. We have lost contact at
the moment and are trying to reestablish communications with them. We should
know more soon.”

The Chief of Police stood to his feet, his fingers finding creases
in his bald and wrinkled head. “We must not allow this to go unpunished,” he
declared speaking everyone’s thoughts aloud. The man
used to work in public service to the Sinhala
government’s police force before joining the Tamil Tiger militant group. Among
the Jaffna
student population, only those not able to find a job entered the police
service as constables. Now, such a man
was head of the police service and spokesperson of the Tamil Tigers. He
continued, “The CFA has tied our hands and the people no longer fear us
as they should. We need to publically execute two or three people to remind
those in Jaffna
who is in charge. That’ll shut this revolt down. People will bloody well keep
their mouths shut then!”

His Royal Highness nodded grimly at that. Uncle
Pottu cleared his throat and
continued, “The principal, Mrs.VasnthaVelautham,
had no hand in the riot. Her failure is of a different sort. It was her job to
control the students and in this she failed to do. She must answer for it.
However, the Vice Principal, Mrs.PiriyaShan,
is somehow involved. We believe it was she that signaled the start of the riot.
She hates the Tamil Tigers as well as the rest of the Tamil insurgency groups.
Her father and grandfather had been members of
Parliament. She’s worried that the political clout of the high class was
dwindling away fast.

“Have we taken any action against her or her family?” The Treasury
Secretary asked.

Uncle Pottu grinned wickedly. “Give it twenty-four hours.”

“What about the girl who led the interrogation of the Minister of
Political Affairs?” asked the Minister of Industries and Agriculture. He was
the only man there shorter than His Royal Highness.

“Her name is SendhooryRajaguru from Neervely,” he
explained. “Her father, Rajaguru, is an Associate Professor of Economics for
the University of
Kula Lumpur in Malaysia. In addition she is a niece of RajaniThiranagama,
former head of the faculty of the Department of Anatomy at the University of Jaffna. Rajani was a well known feminist
and human rights activist who has criticized our leader in various
publications.”

“I remember her,” someone added. “Didn’t we eliminate her?”

“Yes, in 1989. But the seeds of Sendhoory’s rebellion had already
been planted. The History Teacher fertilized them and watered them. Sendhoory
was the perfect scapegoat for their reprehensible attacks against the Tamil
Tigers and His Royal Highness, since she blames us for her aunt’s death.”

“Where is this little whore now?” someone asked.

“She is in hiding. Our Jaffna Political Head, Lieutenant Earless,
has been tasked with finding her and bringing her in. We don’t want to kill
this girl. We need to use her to send another type of message to the Jaffna people. We’ll put
her in a Y-Class bunker.”

“Yes, that’ll do nicely,” quipped Nadesh as Uncle
Pottu took his seat.

Everyone’s eyes shifted to His Royal Highness. Many felt he would
now pronounce judgment on the poor Minister of Political Affairs. Still
sitting, and with an expression of determination lining his face, their great
leader said, “My dear brothers, I want to remind you of my philosophy of
ruling. It is my right—my duty, even—to know what is best for the Tamil people.
I am the government. Citizens should not say what they want. I tell them what
they want.” His eyes roamed through the room. “I know what is best, for this is
the wisdom given to me. Someone has to rise up and finally free our people.
That person is me. This war won’t be won in the political arena. It will be won
by the sweat, blood, and tears of our people. But free we will be! We will win
this war with bullets, not words!” He nearly came out of his seat at that.

Clearing his throat he sat more solidly and continued, “If I allow
people to speak their mind in ignorance, we will give the bigoted Sinhala people an edge in our fight. Their
genocidal tendencies will go unchecked. So we must use the tools at our
disposal to dislodge this monster! It is fear brought on by brutal tactics that
will win this war—free us from tyranny. I don’t like the fact that we sometimes
must kill our own. But if we are not united, we will fall. The Tamil people
must have one voice. I am that voice. Behind me, we will have victory. No one
should destroy that hope. No one!

“We must weed out these dissenters who would throw us back to the
Sinhala genocidal rule. This is the only way. If the people are not united
behind me, we cannot win. It is an unfortunate reality in which we live. I do
not seek their deaths. But if they stand against us, they will be cut down.” He
clenched his hands tightly. “They too are martyrs to our cause. Their deaths
will unify our people.

“Let me remind you of the stark reality around us. I am forced to
live in an underground bunker around the clock, like a prisoner serving a life
sentence in Bokambara Prison. They call me a terrorist. This I am not. I am a
freedom fighter. Before I took up arms, the Sinhala
Prime Minister, Ministers, and Buddhist monks
incited the violence in an ethnic cleansing of our people. Thousands were
slaughtered. They poured petrol over people and set them afire still alive.
They raped our women in front of their families and cut off their breasts. To
murder our small children, they threw them into
boiling barrels of tar in front of their parents. They ripped the stomachs open
of pregnant women and threw their unborn children into flames. They plucked out the eyes of brothers so the last thing
they would ever see is the rape and death of their family. They burnt our
temples with the priests locked inside. They looted our possessions and then
burnt the homes, businesses, factories and cinemas. Thousands more were herded
like cattle into refugee camps, stripped of all their belongings—not even able
to have a second set of clothes.

“Only when I struck back at the Sinhalese politicians, civilians and
Buddhist monks, killing them like they killed us, did they stop. If I hadn’t
done what I did, they would continue their ethnic cleansing of all Tamils. I!”
He smote his breast with a clenched fist. “I protected my people! After 1977 the Sinhalese never again dared to create ethnic
violence against my people. Our Tamil non-violent politicians could not put a
stop to the regular gruesome ethnic violence. I did it!” His eyes smoldered as he looked around. “Now the world, including Sri Lanka, has branded me a terrorist! I am not a Hitler!
I am not trying to make another Holocaust—I am trying to prevent one! They call
me a terrorist? How many millions died at the
hands of the USA
in Vietnam?
How many thousandsof women were raped at the hands of the Indian soldiers at Bangladesh? And
what of Stalin, Tojo, Pol Pot, and Kim Sung II? MaoZe-Dong
of China
alone killed over 47 million people. I could name many more! I tell you I
am ten thousand times better than all of them! They killed millions! I don’t
have that kind of blood on my hands.

“I am a freedom fighter. I only kill to
clear the weeds out of our precious garden. I fight against a genocidal
government and its racist forces to establish a TamilKingdom
for the Tamil people of northeastern Sri Lanka! A land that is
historically ours! Even the Indo-Sri Lanka agreement of 1987 agrees to this.
I’ve given up everything for this cause. It is my dream to hand an independent TamilKingdom
to our people…one free of the Sinhala Buddhist’s bigoted
atrocities and carnage!”

Everyone in the room roared to their feet
applauding with abandon. The applause went on for some time.

When it died down a bit, His Royal Highness continued, “Now I come
to the events of yesterday in which we were shamefully disgraced by these so
called educated women of Vembady Girls’
College. I order the execution of every person involved with the disgrace of
the Minister of Political Affairs. Don’t show pity even on the teenage girls
there. Tie her to a post and kill her. Throw her body into the market. Cut off
her head and spit it on a pike for all to see. I charge them all as traitors!
Never again will the nation forget who we are and what we are fighting for! No
one should ever again dare question my rule. Create fear! Create terror! Show
no mercy! Offer no apology! If we hesitate, if we ignore this threat, if we
apologize, if we fail, we’ll be wiped off the face of the earth. I call upon
you to remember your duty—or I will be forced to get rid of you as well! It is
for a free TamilKingdom that we fight!”